


The Golden Witch and the Little Rattle Stilt

by Nefaria_Black



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breastfeeding, Domestic Violence, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Gaunt Castle, I hate tagging, Marriage, Non-Graphic Smut, Pregnancy, Pursuit of Happiness, Riddle Manor, Rumplestiltskin Elements, Sexual Abuse, Smut, Unrequited Love, baby!tom, sort of canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 04:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16716721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefaria_Black/pseuds/Nefaria_Black
Summary: Merope lives a sad life at Gaunt Castle. When fate removes her shackles, she makes a deal for a better life with a weird little man.





	The Golden Witch and the Little Rattle Stilt

**Author's Note:**

> I choose not to use warnings, because they didn't fit, but please read this!  
> Warning for triggers: Domestic abuse towards a woman (verbal and physical) and sexual harassment.

**The Golden Witch and the** **Little Rattle Stilt**

 

Lord Marvolo Gaunt was well into his cups the night the Riddles decided to host a feast in honour of their son. The young knight had finally come home after a prolonged stay at court, where he now spent most of his time. The celebration could be heard all the way here, through the thick stone walls that wept during the cold, humid nights.

Lord and Lady Riddle were well loved by the people of Little Hangleton. The village liked the Riddles as much as it feared the sombre Gaunts, with their reputation for madness and cruelness. No child ventured near the decaying fortress; no horses were kept in the stable; no sheep grazed on the ever green meadows; no servants went about their daily tasks. Gaunt Castle had once been the envy of every lord, earl and duke within hundreds of miles. Their crest still meant old blood, pure blood untainted by the likes of the Riddles, who could barely trace their roots six generations back without having to admit that they came from miller's daughters and shepherd's sons.

And it bothered him. The raucous celebration bothered him. The love of the people for the Riddles bothered him. The influence of young Thomas Riddle at Court bothered him. The dire state of his property and of his family bothered him. It bothered him because he couldn't use his obvious superiority to subject all those filthy Muggles to his authority. He couldn't use his magic against them, not since the Wizard's Council had been established. He wouldn't be allowed to terrorize an entire village and wipe out a noble Muggle family while he was at it. So he drank instead of getting rid of the Riddles, instead of creating some sort of dignified future for his children by taking their land and their village back.

His children. His useless son and daughter.

Morfin was barely capable of coherent conversation in English, wasting away his days mauling creatures from the woods nearby. He was fluent in Parseltongue, though, which meant he could honour his legacy. He was passable as a wizard, but he lacked in everything else. No witch of decent blood would marry him, let alone one worthy of the name of Gaunt and the blood of Slytherin.

Merope would be completely useless if she hadn't found a way to keep them fed and the place clean. Among all the dishonours fallen upon the blood of Salazar Slytherin, a Squib was the worst. She ought to have been casted out long ago, but a wand had chosen her somehow. Not that she was any good with it, but the ownership of a wand meant that there _was_ some magic in her, and that she could not be disowned by her family. To top all of her inadequacies, Merope had the sort of looks that required a sizeable dowry to be bettered. She would’ve been just plain looking, if it weren't for those uncanny crooked eyes of hers.

With the bitter thoughts of the utter lack of future perspectives in what concerned his children, Lord Gaunt rose from his chair, downing the remainder of the elf-wine, and walked to his chambers with uneven steps.

X

Merope counted every step of her father, listening to their echoes in the empty halls. She checked the bolt on her door, making sure it was locked. Not that it would help her against a brother capable of magic, should he decide to act on the threats he murmured by her ear these days. But she made sure the door was locked every night, and she slept with her hand wrapped around her wand, under her pillow, hoping that her powers would awake with her fear. Emotions were essential to the triggering of magic in cases like hers; maybe Morfin barging inside would do it.

Before she went to bed, she sat by the only window of her bedchamber, on the stone pew carved into the rock, and she listened to the far away sounds of the feast at Riddle Manor. She let herself dream for a moment, wondering how much more handsome Tom could possibly be compared to when she had last seen him, over twenty turns of the moon ago. But the stone walls had a way to diffuse the cold through her flesh and into her bones, and the red robe she had on, the one that had belonged to her mother, was growing thin from use, and she was soon so cold that her teeth clattered. Since sitting on a frigid slab wasn't helping her, she relinquished daydreaming by the window to the relative comfort of her bed, damp from the lack of embers to warm it with. Embers were for her father, sometimes for her brother, but they were never enough for her.

In her sleep, she dreamed. She dreamed of Tom and of dancing with him at the banquet, all through the night, right until the first faint rays of sun came into her bedchamber and caressed her face. She woke up with a smile on her cracked lips, which reality soon wiped. She got up, groggy from slumber, momentarily awakened by the cold floor her feet touched, before she wrapped her thin body in the red robe and slid her feet into black slippers. Most of the things here had belonged to her mother. There were some fine gowns in a trunk at the feet of her bed, but she never donned them. She had cleaning and cooking to do; a simple woollen dress and an apron with one large centre pocket were all she needed, paired with wooden clogs. Once in a while, she would tie her hair away from her face, but life was easier if she kept her uneven eyes hidden from her father.

She hurried to the kitchen, to eat something, and then made breakfast for when the men woke up. Her brother usually got up early, never one to waste a moment to torment her or the poor creatures he liked to nail to the trees. He was soon upon her, touching her in ways she knew a brother shouldn't, threatening to go up to her bedchamber at night, after father went to bed. Merope pushed him away, hurting her knuckles on his solid chest, earning nothing but a laugh and a slobbered kiss on the corner of her mouth. She left him eating while she hurried to tidy the main hall. There were a jar of wine and a cup on the table, by the side of an empty plate where her father's diner had been. She would have to take him breakfast there or to his chamber, however he preferred.

Once her brother was outside and she had taken up her father's breakfast, Merope retreated to the kitchen and sat by the door, feeling the sun on her skin as she mended clothes. She hummed a song, one her mother used to sing with her warm voice, when she had been little and happy.

The clamour of hooves on the road caught her attention and made her forget the task and the song. Tom Riddle, Sir Tom now, was making his way down from Riddle Manor to Gaunt Castle, astride a magnificent steed of auburn coat. A smile flourished upon her face, only to dwindle at the sound of laughter. Lady Cecilia had joined his ride, demurely mounted on a white mare. She was pretty, a patrician beauty of dark hair, carefully braided, donning a blue dress and looking warm under her black cloak.

Tom never paid much attention to the castle, let alone its occupants, but with Cecilia by his side? Merope had no chance of being noticed. He did spare her a look, though, raising a brow at her ruined clothes and her bare calves.

"Go inside to sew, girl, it's cold out here, light a candle! Lord Gaunt can't be that miser!" He laughed, and Cecilia laughed with him, as their horses picked up the pace and galloped past the turn of the road.

Merope was hurt she had been mistaken by a maid, but it was to be expected. What kind of lordly father kept his lady daughter in rags? What kind of lordly father made his lady daughter cook meals, scrub floors and empty chamber pots?

A magical one. A wizard could demand all that of his witch daughter, and she could do all of those things with flicks of her wand. Not Merope, though, not the shame of the family, not the girl who had lost her mother at the age of eight and never had the talent to learn on her own.

A scream delivered her from her musings. Tom's scream. And a shrill cry that could only be Cecilia's. Merope ran down the road, dropping the shirt she was mending on a puddle of mud and not caring one bit. Tom could be hurt. Two horses ran past her, almost trampling her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tom cover his face with one hand while he held the reins in the other.

"I got him as he went by and he didn't look so pretty with hives all over him, did he, Merope?" Her brother emerged from the hedge by the side of the road, laughing maliciously. Merope turned and ran back inside; before he could aim his wand, but she felt the spell just miss her legs. She stepped on the shirt by the door and slipped taking the turn towards the entrance, scratching her hands on the dirt floor, trying to break her fall.

Her father's voice, hissing furiously, was soon heard. He had come downstairs just in time to witness Morfin's behaviour. Her brother answered in a low growl, followed by words in Parseltongue. Merope climbed up the stairs to her chambers, feeling safer with every turn of the winding staircase. Her tower felt safe, but she had no magic to defend it. She curled up in a corner, hoping that the wizards downstairs wouldn't turn to her in anger.

X

The following evening, a balding, chubby man came to visit. They never had any visitors, and Merope couldn't decide whether to be grateful and greet him or to be fearful, hide and let her father handle him. She needn't worry; her brother went bursting through the front door before she could even say anything, wielding his wand and a knife, a deranged sequence of hisses tumbling from his frothing lips.

The man pulled out his own wand, trying to calm Morfin down while ordering him to drop the knife and holster his wand. He was hit by a spell before he could explain himself, and propelled backwards, all the way to the road, where he landed in a cloud of specks of mud. Merope ran to find her father.

Lord Gaunt took long strides from his musty study to the main hall, quick on his feet, while Merope had to run to keep up. He immediately casted a spell to restrain Morfin, demanding a reason for the wizard's presence in his home, while he walked up to the steps again and cleaned his robes.

"I'm Bob Ogden, Lord Gaunt," the man started, introducing himself with a slight bow, "and I'm here on Wizard's Council orders." He seemed to shrink in the presence of him, being short and bulky where Marvolo Gaunt was tall and lean.

"Wizard's Council orders?"

"Morfin has broken wizarding law," Ogden said, calmly.

"Morfin has broken wizarding law," Lord Gaunt mocked, "he taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that's illegal now, is it?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is, and for that reason Morfin has been summoned before the Wizengamot." Ogden stood straighter then, reading himself for an argument, completely blind to Merope's presence by the door.

Morfin started talking again, justifying his actions to his father, in Parseltongue, oblivious to the growing panic in Ogden's eyes. Merope could swear her heart had stopped beating. Morfin was telling their father about her infatuation with Tom Riddle, that he had only jinxed Tom to teach _her_ a lesson.

Lord Gaunt dropped his wand and walked towards her with untamed fury in his eyes. She couldn't run, she couldn't even breathe, petrified in fear. Her own father grabbed her by the throat, lifting her off the floor, shaking her in his rage. Her clogs fell off her feet, left bare in the cold air, trying to find purchase on the floor without daring to kick her father's shins.

"You filthy blood traitor! A Squib and a Muggle loving one at that," he hissed, crushing Merope's neck with his long fingers, digging his unkempt nails into her skin.

"My lord! I beg of you, leave the girl alone. My lord, let go of her!" Ogden took his wand out and aimed a jinx at Marvolo, making him drop Merope and stagger backwards. He meant to approach Merope, but Morfin was already throwing hexes in his direction and hence Ogden Disapparated with a crack.

Merope tried crawling away from her father, but her throat was sore and every breath felt like a stab, so she didn't get far before he was on her again, picking her up by her light-brown hair.

"Is it true? My daughter, a pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin, hankers after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?"

She couldn't even see him, her eyes covered in tears. But she could listen, and she heard a series of cracks as a dozen wizards Apparated outside and rushed through the doors. She was dropped to the floor once more, and desperately tried to collect herself while jets of light coursed through the room.

By the end of it, her father and brother were in shackles, being dragged outside, still cursing the party of Council wizards. Ogden picked up both their wands, tucking them away under his cloak, and walked up to her.

"I'm sorry, my lady. Lord Gaunt and his son will be presented to the Wizengamot for their crimes against you, the Council, and the Muggle. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Merope shook her head, but took the hand he offered and rose from lying to sitting on the stone floor. A horse neighed and steel sung outside, and she could hear her father’s screams.

"You filthy Muggle, how dare you step on my land? This is your fault! My daughter is far too worthy for the likes of you!”

There was no answer. Instead, Tom Riddle walked inside, no sign of hives, sword drawn and ready.

"What happened? I heard the commotion from the Manor. Who are you?" He jutted his chin to Ogden, a natural authority to his demeanour.

"I'm here to take Lord Gaunt and his son. They have crimes to answer for."

Tom didn't doubt him, not with the reputation they had. Odgen retreated hastily, worried about the Gaunts exposing them as wizards to the knight. Once alone in the room with Merope, he saw her stand, clearly unimpressed by her looks. He kicked the clogs closer to her feet and gave her an order.

"Fetch your mistress."

"My mistress, sir?"

"Yes, girl! Lord Marvolo just told me he has a daughter. I think I remember a little girl running about, years ago. She must be about what, seventeen now? Where is she?"

Merope's heart sped up. She couldn't admit to the true, not when she could see the scorn in Tom's eyes, the scorn for the low-duelling creature he thought a maid to be; that he thought _her_ to be.

"She is upstairs, sir. She was very upset by all of this," she lied, effortlessly, keeping her eyes on the floor, "she won't come out until tomorrow."

"I see... Tell your mistress that I'll come back tomorrow to make sure she’s safe," he sheathed his sword, making the steel sing against the leather, "she won't be left helpless and alone. Tell her that, girl."

He didn't wait for an answer. Servants weren't supposed to give them. He walked outside with sure steps, shaking his head at the evident deterioration of the fortress. Merope was left utterly clueless at what to do next. She had lied. She had backed herself into a corner, a hard one. There was no mistress but her. She had lied today, but tomorrow she would have to tell Tom the truth, and lose him forever. She would no longer be indifferent to him; he would hate her, scorn her, and never ride by the garden again.

She spent the rest of the day in a haze. Her mind seemed to float above her. She was idle for the first time since her mother had died, and that had been nine years ago. Her mother, who had been a beauty, a witch worthy of being referred to as mistress, who knew how to keep the castle and order the house-elves around, before Morfin took to killing them. There was no one to hurt her in the castle now, she didn't have to clean up after her brother and father, or cook for them, or hide from them. She was free.

But she had lied and she would lose Tom for it.

By night time, Merope was sitting on a low stool in front of the dwindling fire in the kitchen hearth, eating stew from a bowl, eyes lost in the flames but unseeing. Her magic had never been of use, how on earth was she supposed to sort this out? Her father had bragged of a daughter too worthy for Tom, and he had assumed she was a simple maid. Because he probably remembered her fair-haired, running about in the garden under the loving gaze of her mother, who had been a blonde beauty with lean arms and dainty hands. He thought her beautiful; he thought her beauty was the thing that made him unworthy of her. When, in fact, her looks were less than impressive. He had seen her, and deemed her unworthy of him.

She cleaned her bowl and spoon, and then stared at the fire. They were gone, but Merope couldn't bring herself to take some of the embers for herself. She ambled through the dark halls, with only a candle to light her way, absentmindedly walking towards her bedchamber. She set the candle on the bedside table. She quickly changed from her apron, woollen dress and undershirt to her old nightgown, that prickled at her skin and left reddish marks behind in the mornings, plucking the red robe from the back of an unsteady looking chair. She would sleep in it tonight, to find what comfort she could in the memory of her mother.

She climbed in bed but sleep never came. She cried with eyes wide open, staring at the floor, until her voice was hoarse from sobbing. It was then that a shadow emerged on the square of moonlight on the ground. Merope raised her head from the pillow to face the stranger, dread filling her chest at the mere thought of her brother being back.

The figure that stood at her window and observed her from the windowsill was nothing like her brother. He was dwarfish. A little man with crooked legs and arms too long for his body, with a full head of lime green hair, with a set of mischievous brown eyes and an impish smile on his face, his hands tucked into pockets on his striped doublet in red and yellow. He took one hand out, pushed her window open and hopped inside, without her leave to do so.

Merope sat up in her bed, retreating to the headboard, clutching her wand. He laughed, and his mirth was hoarse, shaking his head and waving his hand, as if telling her not to worry.

"You're in a predicament, aren't you, dearie? Should we strike a bargain, dearie, should we?" His voice threw her off. It was not a manly voice. It was weirdly pitched, with a nasal quality to it, hoping from note to note as he spoke.

"How do you know?"

"A young lady lying on her bed, crying? Not hard to guess. It's my trade to know these things."

"How did you get up here? Are you a wizard?"

"Oh, I have my ways, poppet. Enough with these silly questions. What's your predicament? I'm sure I can help."

Merope felt bizarrely safe with the strange man in her room. She gathered her bed covers to her chest, suddenly realizing how exposed she was. She told him of her troubles nonetheless. Of how the man she had been fawning over ever since she remembered was supposed to visit come the morning, and of the way her looks would keep her from being happy with him, from ever seeing him again.

"Oh dearie, but that's no trouble! That's easy! I'll fix your looks for a whole day, from sunrise to sundown, and you'll have your happiness! What would you like to look like? Like your lady mother? I remember her, pretty she was, poppet."

"It's not possible," she whispered, touching her lips. Her mother had been gorgeous, if sorrowful, but it only added charm to her figure. Merope was nothing like her.

"Darling, you have no idea what's possible," the dwarf giggled a silly giggle, "you see, we need only make a bargain."

"A bargain? I don't have anything of real worth… There are no riches left in this house."

"Ah, dearie. You see, I give with one hand," he said, waving his left hand in a flourish, just before he extracted his right hand from the doublet, "but I must take something with the other." And where his left hand was normal looking, covered in skin tanned from the sun, his right hand was black and shrivelled, as if it had withered on his wrist.

The dwarf with the lime green hair claimed the simple gold ring Merope wore on her right hand. It had belonged to her mother, and it was a lovely ring with ivy and roses carved into the metal, though it was tarnished from her house chores, but this could be her chance at happiness, so she gave it. He took it in his left hand and snapped his fingers with the right one, the sound clear despite the lack of flesh to the bone and the blackened skin that looked like raisins. She felt a tingle all over her, making her shiver, but when she looked at her hands they were still marred by her work.

"Now think of what I said, dearie. From sunrise to sundown. Sleep, and in the morning you'll be beautiful for your knight."

He put away the ring, climbed up the window and hopped to the night before Merope could voice her protest. And yet, she had felt safe with him. She trusted him to do his part. Her magic was no good, so relying on his was all she had. She slid back down to her mattress, squealing at the chill that had conquered her sheets during her absence, but she found that she was tired, so very tired, and so sleep was easy to come by this time.

X

Merope woke up with the sun in her eyes, having overslept a little; just enough that the sun was actually above the horizon and not a pinkish hue still fighting the night. She stretched, cursing the damp bed, and when she finally opened her eyes while she covered her mouth in a yawn, she saw the change. Her nails were not soiled and broken and brittle, they were perfectly pink with a proper immaculate white rim. Her skin was soft and unblemished. She jumped out of the bed, too excited to notice the cold, and ran to the old mirror in the corner.

It was warped in places, but she could see her reflection plainly enough, and it did not match the one she had seen every morning for years now. She had long, golden-blonde hair, falling down her back to the curve of her hips, soft, with plush waves that danced around her. Her eyes actually moved together now and though they were still light-brown, there was a gold tint to them now, and a glint that had nothing to do with magic. Her skin was the same pale tone but there was a different light to it. Her features did resemble those of her late mother. She undressed in front of the mirror, blushing at her lack of modesty, and found that her body remained on the skinny side, but she had softer curves now. She turned to find that she could no longer count every rib and vertebrae she owned by looking at her back. Her legs were longer and she was taller for it. Her arms were lean and unblemished, free of scars from cuts and burns in the kitchen.

For a day, she would be absolutely stunning, she thought. For a day, she would wear pretty gowns instead of rags, she decided. Putting on the red robe again, and looking over her shoulder to appreciate the way it hugged her form when tied, she walked to the trunk at the feet of her bed. Inside, wrapped in cloth with protective spells, she found the gowns she remembered her mother wearing. She chose a green one, with a modest but wide neckline and silver trimmings. She held it against herself and laughed when she found that she was now as tall as her mother. She picked an undershirt as well and woollen stockings that had always felt too delicate for her, with embroidered green garters. She needed a petticoat to support the skirt of the gown, so she sorted through the clothes until she found one. Her black slippers looked odd, worn and turning grey, but she figured they'd be hidden by the hem of her skirts.

She took pleasure in getting ready that morning, taking her sweet time. The dress was a little too big for her, but she found a black leather belt that gathered it at her waist, allowing her to keep her silhouette. She left her chamber, taking a little too much joy in kicking her clogs to the side, and tried to figure out the best stride on her way to the kitchen, the one that made her skirts wave in tandem with her hair. She had breakfast, taking care not to soil her garments, relishing the feeling of freedom.

By noon, Tom Riddle was at her doorstep, tying his horse to the hoop on the wall. Not the dainty auburn steed, but a black stallion, taller and heavier. She greeted him at the door, and for the first time in her life knew what it was to be admired. He made an effort to look at her face as he climbed up the steps and kissed her hand, but once before her his eyes were busy roaming her thin but shapely body, hidden by the excessive fabric, looking like his mind was busy undressing her already. And even though she had no experience when it came to these things, Merope liked that he looked at her like that. She liked that he wanted her, that he was now looking at her in a way that used to be Cecilia's.

Merope took him inside, offering him a light meal and ale at the table before the hearth, and he made sure to pull his chair close to hers. He told her of how he remembered her as a little child, and of how he couldn't believe he hadn't seen her in so many years. She told him that her father liked to keep her inside, away from the eyes of the world. That she was never allowed outside. He smiled, calling Lord Gaunt a greedy man for keeping her beauty all to himself. He promised her that she wouldn't have to worry about being alone at the castle, she could even move in with the Riddles while her family was gone. She blushed as she lied, telling him that she would be fine with the maid, but that only made Tom's eyes shine. When he directed the conversation to her father and brother, she couldn't help but recoil, touching at her neck, still sore. He frowned, and then reached for her, and that made her whimper, which made him stop.

"I won't harm you, Lady Merope. I thought I saw something on your neck," he moved his fingers again, pushing her hair out of the way, "these bruises, my lady, was it them?"

She nodded silently, a couple of tears falling down her cheeks, released not out of fear but out of happiness, for a tenderness she had long forgotten. He caressed her bruised neck, but dared no further. Where she lacked experience, he had plenty, and he knew that the path to having her had to be walked and not run. He rose.

"I have errands, my lady, but I shall not forget you," he vowed, bowing to kiss her hand once more, lingering on her soft skin while he kept his eyes on hers. She escorted him to the door, and watched him ride away towards the village, smiling under the sun.

She spent the rest of the day in a different sort of haze, giddy and happy. Full of hope now that Tom had noticed her, so much of it that she dared think that maybe, just maybe, her magic would at last cooperate. She ran upstairs to fetch her wand and opened the chest of books in her bedchamber, deciding that she would learn a spell today.

And she did. She laughed free and weightless when she levitated one of her pillows, even if it fell before she could get it back on the bed. She practised and practised and when night fell her rooms had been tidied with magic. The meal at the hearth wasn't cleaned so successfully, but she found that she could laugh at her little failures, now, unburdened by the scorn of her family.

And even when the sun dived below the horizon once more and her beauty was gone and the dress too wide and long for her now, Merope was happy. The little man had promised her beauty and happiness for a day, but she found that happiness lingered, like Tom's eyes on her. She thanked her lucky stars at night, watching them twinkle in the darkness, in a warm bed for the first time since her mother's death, and not damp, for there were embers to warm it.

X

Three days lasted her bliss. For three days she got up in the early morning, wand in hand, devoted to learn all that she could, reading books about domestic spells and charms, devoted to being able, like her mother had been, of keeping the castle clean and tidy with flicks of her wand.

In the morning of the third day, she heard the trumpets that announced Sir Tom's arrival at the Manor. He had been gone to inspect the lands and towns that would be his one day. Merope smiled, thinking him near once more. She smiled at the memories of him. He had promised not to forget her, but a man as handsome as him had plenty of women chasing him, he would probably be wooing Lady Cecilia again by noon. She had had her happiness; she could live off of it. She had her magic now, and she had hope. She would never have Tom Riddle, but maybe she could have a nice wizard husband, now that she was a proper witch.

But by noon, Tom Riddle was at her doorstep, once more. Knowing no man could stop him, he strode inside the hall, only to find Merope in rags, scrubbing away at the floor. Some chores she couldn't use her magic for, yet.

"Where can I find Lady Merope?"

Merope dropped her scrub brush, hiding her hands in her pocket, feeling the rough fabric prick and pull at the wounds the cold water and the friction had caused. Averting his eyes, both parts ashamed and thankful that he had erroneously assumed her a maid that first time, she lied again. She told him that Lady Merope was out to see if there was anything she could do for her family, now that they had been convicted to sentences at prison.

"She cares for them? She seemed so afraid the other day…"

He didn't mean it as a question to her, not at all, but she felt compelled to provide him with an explanation.

"Oh, she is m'lord… But she is the lady of the castle, it's her duty."

"Well then," he said, adjusting his heavy belt, "I'll come back tonight to see her."

"Tonight? My lord, that is not proper."

He laughed uproariously at her concern. This was not a man one said no to.

"There's no one here but you, who will tell? Will you stand in the way of your mistress' happiness?"

Tom Riddle did not wait for a reply, would never wait for a simple maid, he walked with long, elegant strides back to his stallion, mounting the black beast and turning it towards the village, before digging his heels in, galloping away. Merope was left standing in the hall, hands in her pocket, lost in her thoughts at first, lost to tears after that. She was lost. Tom was coming back that night and he would see her for what she truly was. An ugly girl in rags, with nothing to offer but a name and a blood he couldn't see the worth of.

She cried, picking up the brush and the bucket of water. There was no point in cleaning if she was to lose everything. She took them back to the kitchen, forgetting to try and use her magic to banish them there. She did use her magic to stoke up the fire and bring the stool to the hearth, absentmindedly stirring the soup in the pot over the flames.

A small rustle made her turn on her seat. There was no one there at first, but then the little man with lime green hair and odd proportions emerged from the shadows by the kitchen door.

"In a predicament, again, poppet?"

"I need more! I need more of your magic, I need to be beautiful for longer," Merope said in a single breath, uncaring for consequences, "can you make me beautiful like before?" She was already thinking of things to pay him with. She only had her necklace, and that was a simple trinket, but perhaps she could find something in her father's chambers.

The dwarfish man laughed a malicious chuckle that drove shivers down her back.

"Greed is good, dearie. It keeps me in business. What can you offer me this time?"

"I have this necklace," she answered, pulling it over her head, "but I can look through my father's belongings."

"Oh no, dearie. I'm here to make a beauty out of you, not a thief. That pretty little necklace will do."

"How long will you make it last this time?"

"In a hurry, aren't we? Oh, I know, you needn't tell me, poppet," he said, with his voice that climbed octaves and tumbled notes, "your pretty knight will be back tonight. You'll be a beauty for a week, no more. From now, to the same hour seven days from today, hmm?"

He didn't wait for her acceptance, and she didn't feel the need to make it explicit. He extended his left hand, took the necklace she dropped into it, and snapped the fingers of his right hand.

"All done now, dearie. Go clean up a bit and be happy with your knight."

Merope didn't wait for him to go once she felt the same tingle as before. She took her wand and ran upstairs to look in the mirror. She was still in her raggedy clothes, but she was gorgeous even in them. So happy that she could burst into song, she took out a different gown, a dark blue one with grey fur trimmings. She took a bath in a wooden tub that had gone unused for years, but now she could fill it with water, warm it up and enjoy a proper bath.

When the sky was alight in the pinks and oranges of the dying day, she heard the familiar noise of hooves followed by sure steps of leather boots walking up to the door. She went to greet Tom at the steps, and they were once more lost in one another. He took her hand, but he raised it to her own lips before he kissed her knuckles. She could see his dark blue eyes twinkle with his smile, and they were so very close that her mind came to a complete halt.

"Have I told you that your eyes are gorgeous, my lady? Like the eyes of a lioness, to go with your golden hair."

"Not as beautiful as yours," she replied in a whisper, unsure of what to do.

He eliminated her doubts, wrapping his arms around her, smiling at her tiny waist and narrow shoulders, and kissed her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, then her lips. And she never fought him, she never pushed him away, but she did stop him when his tongue became bold.

She took him inside, sitting with him at the table, where the meal she had cooked entirely with magic awaited, kept warm by charms. Looking around amidst their conversation, she decided that she would use her magic to make the castle prettier, better, for him. He kept her hand in his, and she dared think that he wanted her for more than her beauty.

X

Tom came to her every day of that week, often prolonging his stays into late evenings, and the village talked. It was not proper, all the women agreed. It was love, all the girls said. It was Sir Tom, the men japed.

Merope's magic flourished under his love and the absence of her family. She kept the castle clean without having to touch anything. She did break a couple of cups and dropped copper and iron pots once out of every five tries, but she laughed instead of screaming in terror. She enjoyed the sound of the metal meeting the dirt floor of the kitchen, for once finding joy in the bell-like toll of it, instead of the dread of punishment impending.

They would kiss at the steps, and she would let him get bolder and bolder when they sat before the fire, in an upholstered bench that she had magically fixed, but he always stopped when she deemed it enough. He jibbed about her maid being very quiet and never seen, and she giggled when she told him that servants were not meant to be seen nor heard. She had to be careful with her magic when he was around, but she had found ways to summon their meals to the table when he wasn't looking, and to keep him out of the kitchen now full of charmed objects.

He had smiled at her fear of horses, but he was gentle when he introduced her to his mount, promising to ride it with her every day. They started with small rides that went no further than the gardens she now took great care with, but soon they were trotting into the village, where Tom would stop at the market and purchase the best looking apple for her, and the second best for himself. He had taken her to the river nearby, and mocked her for her having tiny feet for such long legs, and Merope had laughed, splayed on the grass, her hair a halo, while he removed the slippers that were no longer grey and old but satiny black, to better appreciate the little treasures her stockings kept hidden. He had been brazen that afternoon, touching her over the dress, kissing her cleavage, but he had stopped before she had to tell him to.

"I'll make you mine, Lady Merope Gaunt, but I'll do it the proper way."

She had been elated then, but now she worried. He wanted to marry her, to make her his, and she couldn't possibly say yes to the greatest happiness of her life.

She found herself sitting on her bed, still in pretty clothes but no longer beautiful. She had told Tom that he could not stay late today and he had left just in time for her to climb the stairs to her rooms and change back, with her clothes still rumpled from his ever daring hands. It was all gone now, for her beauty was a fleeting thing and she was back where she started. An ugly girl in rags, living in a decaying castle. Her magic couldn't fix her looks. She had searched her books, and every other book in the library, but there was no way for her to keep her beauty.

This time, she did not cry at her window. This time, she sat there wishing for the little weird man to come. And when the lime green hair popped over her windowsill and he hopped into her room, she told him that she needed to keep her looks, to keep her happiness, to keep her magic, to keep her love. She needed to keep Tom.

"Well then, it's a deal dearie. You will take that form forever, consider it done."

"But what's the price? There's always a price to your magic, and I have nothing left to give."

"That's what you think. But you will in the future" he laughed, snapping his fingers, "I'll collect my debt later, dearie, don't you worry."

Merope felt a familiar tingle, followed by bone shattering pain that had her gasping for air and falling to the floor.

"What's happening?"

"You're changing, dearie. This isn't a simple glamour to trick the eye of the beholder."

The impish man was already up on the windowsill when Merope got up again. Taller, blonde, with pretty hands and long delicate fingers that had never scrubbed floors or scoured pots. She reached for his arm.

"No, wait. You never told me what the price was."

"What the price _is,_ dearie. Nothing much, just your firstborn."

"My firstborn," comprehension came slowly to her, "you mean… No! I don't want this, take it back!"

"It's too late, dearie. The deal is made. Don't worry love, you'll have more children. Making them is quite enjoyable, I hear. And plenty of babes die in their first years, yours will be spared."

He gingerly hopped off, his lime green hair shining in the moonlight for an instant. Merope stayed by the window, hands on the cold windowsill, golden hair waving in the night breeze, steadying herself and her mind. Her magic was getting better every passing day, she would find a way. She had to. She would have her happiness, and her magic. She would keep Tom, and every child she had with him.

X

When Tom returned to her the next day, tired from sitting in hearing with his father while they settled quarrels over cattle and land, delivering justice where it was needed, Merope sat silently by his side at the table, watching him eat.

"You're supposed to be eating with me, Merope."

She flashed him a little smile, and pushed her hair off her shoulders, aware of the fire shining through its golden waves, delighting in the way it made Tom gulp and lick his lower lip.

"I like looking at you, Tom," she said, tasting his name. They had taken to using forenames when alone at the castle.

"Well, if you're not going to eat, you can sit with me by the fire, and let that raggedy maid come in to clear the table."

The remark didn't hurt her this time, for she was no longer that girl. She dismissively told him that the maid knew better than to be in the same room with them, with a mischievous spark to her eyes, while she took her seat by his side on the bench. He was quick to pull her close, chuckling at her insinuation.

"I know Lord Gaunt is a stingy man, but couldn't you let the girl have one of your old petticoats and a shirt?"

"I can't, I'm not allowed to give her any clothes. The ones I have were my mother's, and my father won't see any of them on her," she explained, feeling like she wasn't lying at all. Her father would be furious if he ever caught Merope in the gowns of her mother.

"He won't have new ones made for you?" He asked, pulling her onto his lap and kissing her neck, where he had first seen the bruises. "He won't let you buy fabric and make them yourself?"

"No, I fit them and I mend them," she replied, avoiding his eyes, ashamed of admitting to the poverty they lived in, leaning against his shoulder.

"They aren't good to you, are they? Your father and brother... Merope, you're afraid of them, I know. I see it in your eyes every time I mention them. I can take you away, I can set you free. Let me rescue you, pretty damsel," he whispered, before he kissed the hollow at the base of her neck, arching her back with his hands to better plunder her cleavage, "let me save you."

"Yes," she said in a gasp that turned into a low moan.

"Yes? Merope, are you saying you'll marry me?"

"Yes, Tom, I'll marry you,” she said, kissing him, “save me, my gallant knight."

He pushed her down, to lie on the cushioned bench, roaming her body with his hands, tracing the slopes and valleys he already knew, venturing further in some places, slowly pulling her skirts up, but Merope stopped him. She had too much at risk. The weird little man with lime green hair had promised to take her firstborn for her happiness, and her happiness was not a bastard child she wouldn't get to keep anyway.

"Not yet, Tom," she whispered into his ear, with a confidence she didn't know she possessed, "not that." She dug her nails into his abundant black hair, bringing his lips back up to hers as she felt him shiver with desire, a flame to match the one she was struggling to smother inside of her.

"I want you," he told her, attacking her neck and that spot behind her ear, making her squirm in his arms, "I'll always want you. I'll marry you anyway-"

She cut his words short, pushing him off her while forcing her lungs to breathe normally again.

"Not yet, Tom. I'll marry you, and then you'll have me, not before." She had moved slightly away from him, towards the edge of the seat they shared.

"Very well, my lady," he said, with one last kiss to her exposed shoulder, "you will marry me, and then I'll have you. I'll bed you true and well, until your lips are tender from kisses and your body exhausted from pleasure."

Merope had to dig her fingers into her skirts to keep them from flying to his hair. He smirked and let out a little laugh, before he stood and walked away from her, speaking over his shoulder.

"Bring only what you'll miss, my lady, I'll have you draped in the finest clothes and surrounded by riches, and unburdened by your family," he turned at the door, smiling, "I must go now, for I fear your beauty will undo my restraint if I dally."

She laughed, but she still rose to walk with him to his horse, set free to graze in the garden, by the rose bush she had revived. She walked back inside once he was gone, lips swollen from one last ferocious kiss, and set to modifying the dresses so that they would fit her, all but the green one she had worn for Tom the first time. She packed the trunk with her clothes and very few personal objects. She made sure to test the Muggle-proof lock on the chest of books, smiling as the books were concealed by an illusion of stockings and undergarments.

There was one more thing that had belonged to her mother. The locket of Slytherin, which her father had always denied her. For the first time since they had been arrested, she ventured into the wing where Lord Gaunt and his son had their chambers. She tidied her father’s bedchamber using only her magic, still amazed at how easy it felt now, when it had been such a daunting task before. She found the case where the locket was kept, and took it in her hands, leaving a letter in its place.

X

She married Tom three days later, in a beautiful gown. A cream dress that matched her skin tone, almost indecently, snugly fit to her upper body, with a high waist that bloomed in a far reaching skirt that dragged a good foot behind her. With trimmings of gold, to match her hair and her eyes Tom had said, to match his gibbon she thought. The locket sat on her cleavage, cradled by the curves at the top of her breasts. She was a lovely bride, with a constant smile on her lips, wider when Tom spoke to her, a little shy when other men admired her beauty.

Lord Thomas and Lady Mary welcomed her wearily at first, suspicious of the streak of insanity that ran in the blood of Gaunt, suspicious of this daughter that Lord Marvolo had kept hidden for so long. They were surprised by her exquisiteness, but they remembered her mother, who had been a beauty, even if one burdened by melancholia.

Lady Mary was especially kind, taking her under her wing while she learned her duties at the Manor, the ones she would take over one day. She offered to take her maid in as well, but Merope quickly explained that someone had to keep the castle for when Lord Gaunt and his son returned, and the matter was soon forgotten.

Tom took every chance to be with her, whispering soft words in her ear, before he stole her away to an empty chamber where they could ravish each other’s bodies. Lord Thomas smirked every time they returned from their rides to the hunting lodge, pink-cheeked and smiling.

One night, after Tom had woken up to her naked shape lit only by the moon, sleeping peacefully by his side, he woke her with kisses, making her sprawl on their large four-posted bed.

"I'll take you away with me to London. And I'll be envied by every man at court, for my wife with hair of gold, and eyes like a lioness, and skin soft as petals and pale as snow," he told her, kissing a different spot on her body for every compliment, "and you'll be the envy of every woman at court, for having captured me."

She squirmed under his touch, spreading her legs when his hand caressed her mons and his fingers delved into her folds, making sure she was ready for him, teasing her until she was incapable of coherent sentences. She dug her fingers into his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, and pulled his head up so that she could look him in the eyes. He smirked at the sight of molten gold in hers.

"I want you," she said in an airy sigh.

"I know," he replied, entering her promptly but slowly, capturing her lips.

X

Tom took her to court a month later, and she was admired for her beauty there. Young and dazzling Lady Merope Riddle, wife of the stunningly handsome Sir Tom Riddle, was welcomed by the other ladies. She found others like her, too. The Malfoys were preeminent figures in the king’s circle, and though they shared the Gaunt’s ideal of blood purity, they didn’t shy of mingling with the Muggles where an advantage could be obtained. They were known to marry their daughters into distinguished noble families, and the Riddles were certainly one, so they took her under their wing, teaching her ways to protect her true nature.

Merope forgot about the dwarfish man that had made her happiness possible. For months, she enjoyed the feasts, the tournaments and the dances, blooming under Tom’s love. The court marvelled at the golden lady that had turned a womanizer like Sir Riddle into a faithful, loving husband.

She was giddy with joy morning she confirmed her pregnancy with a spell, hidden in their bedchamber. At night, that day, Tom cradled her in his arms, like he often did to carry her to bed, and kissed her thoroughly as he kept one hand over the place where their child grew. She was happy, and she had forgotten about the price of her happiness.

X

When the leaves started to fall from the trees and Merope’s belly had expanded and spread the news of the Riddle heir to be born in winter, Tom told that he wanted their son, for it would surely be a boy, to be born in Yorkshire, at the Manor that he would inherit.

They prepared their journey with care, with short travels that wouldn’t tire her too much, making sure that there was an inn at every stop ready to receive them, or comfortable bedchambers at manors of family friends. Tom liked to have her sit and read by his side while he wrote at his desk, kissing her randomly between letters to the places that should harbour them on the way, caressing her belly when the babe kicked. He liked taking her to bed and pulling her nightgown up to kiss her stretched skin, making her laugh with the silly tone he used to talk to her belly, right before he resumed his kissing and took it lower, to a sweeter place.

It took weeks for them to return to Little Hangleton, but Tom insisted they rode together on his stallion, that she had learned not to fear, keeping its pace slow and easy on her back, wrapping his cloak around her and over her furs. Merope liked riding like that, sideways on the horse’s back, leaning against him, with her forehead snug in the curve of his neck sometimes, listening to him talk about the lands they passed by. She liked the warm meals that awaited them at the end of the day, and the warm beds where Tom rubbed her back until she fell asleep, and the soft kisses she woke up to.

X

The village was elated to have them back not a year past their departure, and Lord Thomas made sure they all knew how happy he was to become a grandfather so soon after his son’s marriage by having food and wine distributed generously.

But their bedchamber at the Manor had windows that faced Gaunt Castle, and Merope had to ask if her father or brother had returned. Lady Mary told her that no sign of life had been seen for months. She had sent servants over to check on her maid in the spring, but there was no one to be found. She had dismissed it as a simple case of a girl running away with some village boy, and Merope lowered her face to her protruding middle to hide her blush with her hair.

Autumn faded away and Merope welcomed the longer nights, when she could sit at the hearth, humming songs to her child, claiming to have forgotten the words long ago, because she could not sing of magical creatures and witches. Winter arrived and she was ordered by her mother-in-law to stay abed and rest. Tom took his meals with her and slept with his arms around her belly and his nose buried in her braid.

It was incredibly cold the day her son was born; the wind and the snow pounded at the windows. Merope fought long and hard to deliver her babe, clutching Lady Mary’s hand, and thanking her with a smile when she used a damp cloth to wipe the sweat from her brow and wet her lips. Little Tom cried loud and clear the moment he was born, kept crying as he was washed and dressed, kicked against the blanket in anger when placed in the arms of his father, but went quiet in the arms if his mother, and opened his eyes for the first time to look up to her from her breast, which he suckled greedily.

Merope fell asleep holding her son against her heart, with her husband’s arm around her shoulders, a thumb caressing her neck and a whispered “I love you” in her ear. In her dreams, there was a shadow haunting her son, but she couldn’t see what the menace was.

X

It wasn’t until a month later that a familiar lime green head emerged from the shadows of the bedchamber while she nursed her babe.

“I’ve come to collect my price, dearie,” he said in his weird voice, “surely you haven’t forgotten.”

Merope held her son closer to her breast, refusing to let the little man take him.

“There must be something else you can take as payment… Look around, you can have everything. You can have my locket; you can have anything but him.”

“Your firstborn was the price we agreed on, poppet. I gave you enough time with him, now give what you promised.”

“I never agreed! I told you I didn’t want your magic if it meant giving up my child,” she told him, furious but keeping her voice down, not to startle little Tom and not to gather attention from beyond the door. “Please, name your price, but do not take him.”

“I’ll make you a deal then, girl,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “I’ll give you three days. For three nights, I’ll come and you’ll try and guess my name. You’ll keep the boy if you guess correctly. If you do not, I take him with me.”

Merope’s mind whirled. His name? And then she realized he had never asked for hers, and she had never learned of his. She was on the verge of tears then, but she agreed. She had to.

He returned the following night, and the one after that, when everyone slept. Merope had whispered names and names, trying not to wake up her husband and child, and she failed every time. He left her both nights with an evil grin on his face, and she could swear he had taken a piece of her soul each time.

On the third day, Tom found her staring out the window, to Gaunt Castle. He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her shoulder, and Merope let herself fall back into his embrace. They hadn’t touched like before in so long, but the custom said forty days, and they both knew it was dangerous for the woman to be bedded too soon after childbirth. So though they shared a bed, there was only kissing and caressing.

“What troubles you, my star?” He had taken to calling her that when he found out about the origin of her name, intrigued by it during their long nights of waiting for their son to be born.

She turned in his arms, wiping tears from her eyes. The imp would come tonight, a third and final time and she still didn’t know his name. How would Tom love her after their son was taken? How would she still be happy if she let little Tommy be taken? She had magic. She could use it properly now, maybe she could fight the man, kill him and claim that he had invaded their chambers to take her son. They couldn’t blame a mother for defending her child. Tom would love her all the more for it.

She ran from his arms, rushing outside to the gardens, to the rose bushes now covered in snow, kneeling there, letting her tears run freely. She heard steps behind her, and recognized her husband’s walk in the rhythm of the crunched snow.

“And what could you possibly have done to deserve such penance, Merope? It’s cold, come inside and tell me what troubles you.” His voice was sure and steady, and she could almost hear the smile at the corner of his mouth, probably judging all of this to be the result of the erratic mood of recent motherhood.

"I'm not seeking penance for what I've done. I'm asking for forgiveness... for what I'm about to do."

Tom approached her from behind, holding her elbows to help her rise, kissing that place behind her ear, and draping a warm fur cloak around her.

"And what are you about to do?"

"I have to protect our son, Tom."

"He is fine, my love, asleep in his crib, fed and warm. Come, we’ll go to him, and I’ll soothe your mind while you hold him."

“I can’t Tom, not now. Just let me be for a little while.”

He didn’t fight her resolve, he seemed to understand it as a plea to be alone from a woman that had had no such chance for months, and he wasn’t hurt by it. He kissed her forehead, making her promise to keep the cloak tight around her and come back inside soon before he left, looking over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t knelt on the snow again.

She saw him go and then walked away, past the garden hedge and into the small woods beyond it. She almost got lost in it, before she remembered that she had to go back to feed Tommy. On her way back through the bushes and the trees, she heard an uneven voice, that climbed octaves and tumbled notes, and she had to cover her mouth not to scream.

In the midst of the woods, in broad day light, the weird little man hoped around a small fire, singing the same words again and again.

“Tonight tonight, my plans I make, tomorrow tomorrow, the baby I take. The lady will never win the game, for Rumpelstiltskin is my name.”

For the first time since Tommy had been born, Merope reached for her wand, concealed in her sleeve and started casting spells. To silence her breathing and her steps, to silence the ruffle of the branches and the cracking of the sticks on the floor. She quickly made her way back to the Manor, where she found Lady Mary holding her crying son.

“I think he’s hungry. Tom went to find you.”

“Will you tell him I’m here already, Lady Mary? I don’t want to make Tommy wait, he gets grumpy,” she asked, taking her son in her arms while she untied her dress and the shirt beneath it, and took a chair by the hearth.

Tom came back to find her crying while their son nursed, whispering about how he was safe now. He kissed the crown of her head, caressing the delicate line of her jaw, and getting lost in the hue of gold that shone in her eyes when she looked up at him.

When night fell and the little man came, Tom was sound asleep, a hand over Tommy’s belly, sleeping peacefully between the two of them. Merope rose slowly, not to disturb them, and wrapped her body in the red robe Tom had gifted her, to replace her old one. She reached for her wand, not to use it but to feel assured.

Rumpelstiltskin asked if she finally knew what his name was.

Merope dallied, her heart trying to burst out of her chest with its unruly beat; anxious to speak the name that would set her free and let her keep her happiness and her child with it.

 “Is it Rudolph? Rupert? Maybe Rabastan or Ronald?”

The little man in the striped doublet laughed quietly at her attempts, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“Perhaps Rumpelstiltskin?”

He stopped smiling then, his blackened hand gripped the normal one viciously, and his face changed to white, then to purple. He was so furious that he could not say a single word, reduced to gasps and snorts. He stomped his foot hard on the floor, and flied out the window he had climbed in through.

“What was that? Merope?”

Tom’s voice was groggy, and Merope heard him click his tongue, as if trying to unstick it from the roof of his mouth.

“It was nothing, husband. Just a log crackling in the fire,” she replied, pointing her wand at the hearth to stoke it up with a silent spell.

“Come back to bed, it’s cold.”

She took off her red robe and climbed into bed again, pulling the covers over her body. Tommy stirred but did not wake as she lay down next to him, enjoying the scent of caramel at the back of his head, and the feeling of Tom’s hand on her waist.

She was happy, and she went to sleep with a smile on her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated ;)  
> This was written for a bunch of prompts at the forum and it just got away from me, I'm leaving the prompts here in case you're interested:  
> Assignment #9: Arts Crafts Task 4 - Yarn: Write a Rumpelstiltskin!AU  
> Writing Club November - Lizzy's Loft 2. (colour) lime green; Showtime 7. Bargain (word); Ami's Audios Admirations 14. A red robe (object); Emy's Emporium 11. (colour) gold; Angel's Arcade 10. Tawna: (word) experience, (dialogue) "I want you.", (colour) cream; Bex's Basement 17. Use the dialogue, "It's not possible." / "Darling, you have no idea what's possible."; Amber's Attic 10. Use the dialogue "Greed is good."; Lo's Lowdown 11. Quotes "I'm not seeking penance for what I've done. I'm asking for forgiveness... for what I'm about to do."


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